The morning was peaceful. The summer sun still cast long shadows beneath the California sky, with no signs of autumn yet. However, the golden light gently resting on the treetops lacked the heat and restlessness of midsummer, making the air feel a bit calmer, as if urging one to slow down.
Brad Renfro had just finished a wild night and felt as if he were floating, his steps as light as a helium balloon.
The City of Angels was bustling, the city more vibrant than ever, but Brad was heading home, ready to finally end today—or was it yesterday?
He had only one thought in mind: to crawl into bed and sleep until the world faded away.
Groggily, he fumbled with the door and pushed it open, only to find the interior shrouded in darkness. Brad paused, stepping back outside where the morning sun was still bright. One step back inside, and there was no sunlight, no light at all, just a dim, swirling glow.
Hmm, what's going on?
His brain, muddled like a slurry, couldn't keep up. Just as he hesitated, wondering if he had stumbled into hell by mistake, the dim light began to brighten.
It turned out to be a shadow.
Brad finally realized that someone had drawn all the curtains and lowered a projector screen to create a theater-like effect in the house.
"Anson?"
Adjusting to the dim light, Brad squinted at the figure curled up on the sofa, not entirely sure as he called out.
Only then did he recognize Anson, with his long limbs, huddled up and completely absorbed in the movie, looking rather pitiful. The sight made Brad want to laugh.
Anson turned his head in response, "Hey, good morning."
Brad's steps were uneven as he approached, his voice uncertain, "Is it morning?"
Anson chuckled, "I'm not sure. You're the one who just came back from outside. Shouldn't you be the one telling me?"
Brad stopped behind the sofa, not intending to stay long, "How would I know? Daytime in L.A. is all the same, can't tell eight in the morning from eight at night."
Anson nodded repeatedly, "Then let me correct that—good morning, good afternoon, good evening."
The lighthearted, humorous tone brought a slight smile to Brad's lips. Originally, he had planned to head straight to his room and collapse into bed—his eyes were barely open. But seeing the projection in front of him, he couldn't help but pause.
Maybe he just didn't have the strength to go back to his room.
"Kieslowski?" Brad asked.
Anson replied, "Yes. 'Red'."
Polish director Krzysztof Kieslowski's famous "Three Colors" trilogy: "Blue" won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival, "White" won Best Director at the Berlin Film Festival, and "Red" was nominated for the Palme d'Or at Cannes and received Oscar nominations for Best Director and Best Foreign Language Film.
Undoubtedly, these are very, very well-known works.
Just from the visual language and the quality of the imagery, Brad could easily recognize it. However, something was different.
Anson wasn't simply rewatching the movie—he was repeatedly watching the same scene.
After Brad arrived, Anson had already rewatched it once. Initially, Brad thought his appearance had interrupted Anson's viewing, causing Anson to rewind, but he soon realized it was deliberate. Anson actually rewound it a third time.
The scene Anson was watching was the film's most famous one: the female lead standing in front of a red curtain, blowing a bubble with bubble gum. Even if one hadn't seen the movie, they likely would have seen a screenshot or image of this scene.
Over and over again.
Anson watched with great focus and immersion, seemingly lost within the scene.
This, in turn, caused Brad to also become absorbed, standing there quietly appreciating it. His eyelids were heavy with sleep, and the entire room was bathed in a soft glow, dreamlike and surreal, as if he were slipping into a dream.
The experience felt entirely different.
It was the same scene, yet each viewing brought subtly different feelings.
Brad couldn't hold back any longer, "What are you doing?"
Anson's gaze remained on the screen, "Nothing. I just really like her eyes and expression. Even in a fleeting moment, you can taste different emotions. It's something words can't describe."
Brad didn't speak again; instead, he became just as absorbed as Anson, unconsciously settling onto the sofa. His body relaxed completely, drifting into a dreamlike state where the interplay of red hues and darkness blurred the lines of reality.
Sometimes sad, sometimes joyful.
Sometimes pure, sometimes complex.
As Anson had said, it was indeed a subtle viewing experience. The world constructed by the film radiated a strange yet vibrant allure, unrelated to the plot, but purely connected to the visuals. The link formed between oneself and the images on screen seemed to touch upon some essence of the soul.
Brad was truly exhausted. His eyelids felt heavy as they fought to stay open, making it difficult to distinguish between what was real and what was fantasy. But he didn't mind—it was a good feeling.
His thoughts, now unfettered, wandered freely.
"Anson."
"Yeah?"
"Do you think I'll still get another chance?"
"Of course, you will."
"You know what I mean. Not just any random acting gig, but a real opportunity to reopen the doors, to truly become a great actor again."
In the stillness, Anson could sense the wistfulness and unease in Brad's voice.
It wasn't hard to understand.
Hayden had joined the cast of "Star Wars: Episode I," James had secured an audition for "Spider-Man," and both Chris and Anson were making strides in their careers. But Brad seemed stuck, unable to move forward.
It wasn't that Brad couldn't land roles, but rather that he couldn't see a path to break through, no hope for the future. It seemed as if his career had reached a standstill, reduced to playing insignificant roles in small indie productions that never made it to theaters, leaving him forgotten by Hollywood's mainstream.
If Brad were sixty, nearing the end of his career, it would be regrettable but understandable. But he wasn't even twenty yet, and it felt like his life had just started only to come to a halt.
No wonder Brad had been living in a haze, lost and aimless.
He once had opportunities but squandered them—so was that the end of it?
Brad had his struggles, different from those of Anson and the others, yet equally ensnared in the vanity and emptiness of the spotlight. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, his vulnerability would slip through, revealing his inner turmoil.
Anson could sense the hesitation and fear in Brad's carefully guarded admission, a mix of yearning and insecurity.
He understood, fully understood.
Because in his previous life, Anson had endured countless nights of tossing and turning, unable to relax even in sleep. He had always kept himself on edge, afraid that showing any weakness would lead to a crack in his facade, which could then bring about the collapse of his entire world.
Is there a correct answer to life?
No.
Even after living two lives, Anson didn't have the answer that Brad needed.
Perhaps the only thing Anson had, from then until now, was faith—unwavering belief in himself, no matter what.